


Pâté

by barghest



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Airports, Community: hannibalkink, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Immigration & Emigration, how is that an existng tag omg, i guess?????? lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 06:11:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4818077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barghest/pseuds/barghest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a trip abroad, Hannibal meets his greatest adversary yet - immigration.<br/>(Hannibal kinkmeme fill, details inside. Not particularly well written tbh.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pâté

**Author's Note:**

> filling this request: http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/4963.html?thread=7961955  
> i like in england so i have like no experience with us immi stuff, i just did a bunch of research so i hope its okay. could be longer!!! but it was fun at least. \o/

"Sir…"

The salt-laden air of Sorrento far behind him, Dr. Lecter already reaches to rescue his belt from the plastic tray it had been dumped in. He is well versed in passing through airport security; his choice of shoes always flat and comfortable, accessories kept to a minimum to reduce the amount of time spent tediously removing them as one passes through the scanners, duty free wine set to the top of his carry-on bag. His flight was boring and stuffy, and now he's eager to be home, the lure of his own bedsheets great this late in the evening.

" _Sir_ ," a hand brushes Hannibal's shoulder, breaking him from his reverie, and he turns to face two customs officers, one of whom is very pale, "we need you to step this way, sir. Just a moment of your time, please."

The bare patch when his eyebrow should be raised a little, Hannibal complies, eyeing the pale officer as she collects his gloves and other possessions. They herd him away from the security area, off towards doors to the interview rooms, and Hannibal can see his bed growing further away with every step, hands flat to his sides to hide his irritation. He considers asking for his phone - Will had warily agreed to collect him from the airport, he should probably warn ahead that he may be a little late exiting the establishment - but Hannibal opts for holding a stony silence as he is led into a small room, and offered a seat.

As another official enters the room towing his luggage, Hannibal resigns himself to smiling tiredly at the assembled group and clasps his hands on his lap, "how may I be of service today?"

The officials look between them, all still standing, until one of them withdraws a package from Hannibal's suitcase, "we were alerted upon landing of your flight, Mr. Lecter--"

"Doctor, please," Hannibal's smile strains a little, and he thinks of the wet dog smell that clings to everything Will owns. Including his car.

"--Dr. Lecter," the customs officer does not bat an eyelid, peeling back the Italian wrapping on the package on a small table, and Hannibal tries not to stare too hard at his dinner being torn unceremoniously from its delicate bindings in front of him, "that your luggage was emanating an odd smell. As you must be well aware, Mr--"

" _Doctor_."

"--Dr. Lecter, the United States border control has strict immigration procedures, particularly when it comes to animal and plant matter products," snapping disposable latex gloves onto their hands, the official eyes Hannibal, fingers poised just above the package. "May we have a look at your Green card and immigration documentation, Dr. Lecter?"

"Of course," anything to speed this process up. Beginning to rise from his chair, Hannibal reaches for his bag - only to have it snapped away from him.

"With all due respect, sir," the palest of the three customs officers is the one unfortunate enough to be holding Hannibal's carry-on, "we only require your Green card, passport, and documentation."

Hannibal does his best not to frown with frustration, "my documentation is in my bag."

The officials exchange a look, all three paused in what had to be slightly uncomfortable positions - particularly the one half bent over the food package, latex-encased fingers shiny and ugly in the stark lighting of the interview room - before one speaks, "your documentation should really be on you at all times, sir."

"It has been," Hannibal feels his brows crease a little and closes his eyes briefly, attempting to transcend this plane, "as I have had my bag with me at all times along my journey. May I please retrieve it?"

"It really should be on your _person_ , sir--"

"And yet nowhere is there signage indicating that I should do so," Hannibal can feel the prickles of tiredness at the edges of his being, his patience thinning with every passing moment. "My bag has been on my person at all time, it has passed through your rigorous security checks without incident. You may recheck it if necessary." He reseats himself, a little harder than he intended.

Another look is exchanged, before the one holding his bag receives the nod and proffers it to him. Breathing deeply, Hannibal retrieves his documents - placed, for ease, just beneath two duty free bottles of Chianti - and passes them over, hands settling back on his lap, ever the obedient (if very irritated) citizen. He inhales deep through his nose, pretending to ignore the assault on his senses that is the oldest official's cologne. Neither officer finds a problem with the documents - _of course they won't_ , he has been in the country long enough to not require falsified documentation for safe passage, Hannibal allows himself an inward sigh - and they turn their attention back to him.

"Everything seems to be in order," the official he has childishly dubbed Latex Fingers (something for Will to laugh at later, no doubt) continues, "that does move up back to the original problem. Unfortunately, the air circulation in the cargo bay of your flight was not properly functional, which led us to detecting…this," they hold aloft the contents of the package, "which is…?"

"Pâté," Hannibal has the growing suspicion that they have no idea what that is, either.

"Pâté?," his suspicions are confirmed, and Hannibal clasps his hands together, all the better to avoid faux strangling motions on his lap.

"Pâté," he repeats, "a simple spread that is often a part of dishes on the continent. Minced meat and fat, most commonly made of the liver of poultry." The pâté in question, however, is of his own creation - a recipe Hannibal is not particularly willing to share at this moment in time. Suffice to say, it is quite personal.

"Ah," more looks are exchanged.

" _Ah _." Hannibal raises an brow of non-comprehension.__

__"Pâté," repeats the palest customs officer, in a wondering manner. Clearly not the brightest of the assembled team._ _

__He opens his mouth to query, "is there a problem…?"_ _

__"Poultry is a restricted item for export to the states," Hannibal's eyes close again, the evening before him stretching out into the night, the warmth of his bedspread and the comfort of his favourite eiderdown pillows now a pinprick in the distance. Will is probably wondering where he is - Will might even have gone home by now, paranoid that Hannibal has given him the wrong date or time, rejected and cold as he curls up with his dogs, letting them be the ones to kiss him better. His imagination is getting away from him, and he re-opens his eyes (albeit very reluctantly)._ _

__"Unfortunately, under the recently updated guidelines," the official holding the pâté, which was actually rather lacking in poultry content, looks quite the opposite of remorseful, "Italy is not a country we allow the export of poultry products, slaughtered poultry, or parts thereof, from. Exceptions can be made with certain documentation…," Hannibal shakes his head, as if he was going to register a bit of home crafted pâté (ingredients courtesy of the hotel's bellboy, who had an unfortunate habit of snapping gum on duty), "…but in this situation, we are forced to seize the items in question, and issue you with a warning."_ _

__"Good," Hannibal is a little too quick to speak, "what must I sign?"_ _

__\--_ _

__Will is patient - if a bit sleepy-eyed - and waiting in the airport's parking lot when Hannibal finally emerges, a coat draped over the passenger seat. "Winston went to the vet," he says in explanation, sitting straighter as Hannibal opens the door to get in, "haven't had time to vacuum the seat off, figured you would prefer to sit on something clean. Sorry." Hannibal waves him off - he would have sat on a dog, the state he is in - and gratefully buckles himself in, back to the twinkling lights of the airport's landing strip._ _

__"What took you so long?," there's no malice in Will's voice and he smiles a little as Hannibal mutters something about _immigration_ and _uncultured oafs_ , not probing too much beyond that. Probably a good thing too, as Hannibal falls asleep the second they reach the main road, and Will has to resist the temptation to pull over and draw the good doctor a pair of eyebrows._ _

__\--_ _

__"Pretty good pâté," Franz Ronald mutters in the main break room of Baltimore Washington International airport, busily spreading the earlier confiscated food product onto toast stolen from his colleague, George Trump, who currently hovers by the fridge. "Where'd you get it?"_ _

__

__"Confiscated it in customs earlier, Lithuanian guy didn't have papers for it," George turns round, sniffing a bottle of milk dubiously, "save me a bit, dickhead."_ _


End file.
